[He doesn't laugh, but he gives a wet kind of chuckling sound and leans a bit off-kilter with it, shoulders trembling with the action. Here he is, a crime against whatever gods one chooses to believe in purely because he refused to lie down quietly on that floor and stay there, and Silco asks him about had-you-lived. He wipes an already bloody sleeve over his wet mouth and then gestures to himself; this thing, the dead man that moves, the spectre.]

I have already become more. And by whose blessing do I persist? I did not tear myself from my corpse to wax poetic about my potential.

[Death is a thing that happens, ergo, death is a thing that can be refused, QED. Potential is a wish; there is no magic good enough to hack it gene, there is only does or does not.

He waves a hand and moves away from the chair he'd been leaning on, to see what the boundaries of this room are. If they can leave this double feature and how bad it is to look at, all the better.]

Stolen from you. Empty hands. Take it back or leave it behind.